


any dreams you'd like to sell?

by writingramblr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anachronistic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Paris (City), Semi-Slow Burn, Titanic References, ambiguous time period, artist Percival Graves, orphan Credence Barebone, take a shot folks, there was research done fear not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13686639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr
Summary: The man is back.As Credence walks through the gardens on the way to the fountain, while hopeful for a better crowd than he’ll get from waiting outside the Louvre like some kind of human vulture, he can’t help noticing the same man from yesterday, once again perched on a bench, deep in concentration, drawing something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almostannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/gifts).



> originally from a prompt by annette, with a simple request for artist!percy and muse!cre. 
> 
> i ended up making it a touch sadder, and longer than just a PWP which is, to be fair, my usual bread and butter. 
> 
> happy valentines day and enjoy.

At first, even just looking at his sketchbook hurts.

There’s enough pages filled with Theseus’s face to last Percy a lifetime.

He’s in various moods, stages of undress, sometimes captured while asleep, if Percy couldn’t manage to make it through the night, he’d wake up and draw from life. Then, in the aftermath, from memory.

All those pages are smeared, and blurry from tears.

The portrayals probably aren’t as nice or accurate either.

Going off his mental images and trying to push through grief like that yielded nothing beautiful.

Percy had almost tossed the book into the fire several times. He’d miss at the last second, dropping short.

Or simply fling it the opposite direction before picking it up, and checking it, ensuring that his flights of madness hadn’t damaged any of the drawings. Then it gets worse.

He can’t even walk past the table it’s sitting on. So he moves it to his desk.

He has no need for that piece of furniture, that side of the apartment. It’s simply a room filled with ghosts. The sound of his laughter, the way his smile brightened everything, light making his green eyes appear like sunshine in the forest outside Percy’s childhood home.

He’d been lucky, growing up outside New York, living in the city through summers, and then going back out to the country for the rest of the year. After high school, he’d decided to see the world.

It stopped in Paris. Not that much of the world compared to France, but in Paris, there had been so many things to see and do and draw. Theseus was all of those things. He had been reason enough to stay.

Percy knows, without anything keeping him in France, he could just leave. He’s only lived here three years, but he has enough money saved to go wherever he wants.

Percy also has an obscene amount of money waiting for him back home.

His parents will likely be exatic he’s got a chance to further the family name again.

He won’t be running off and staying in the city of light, living in sin with his lover. No.

Instead he wastes away, his hands only being useful at his job, a bartending position to pass the time, make ends meet. Most people would think that working in a hotel is vulgar, and he must never be taken care of for tips. As it happens, Percy is lucky. He’s blessed with the good fortune of a handsome face, a charming wit that lingers even when he has to fake it with customers.

Out of towners, especially from America, appreciate someone in a foreign city who speaks their language, so it’s a double bonus for him. Percy has yet to walk away from a shift without exceeding his bosses expectations for sales or take home money.

Lately, even caught up in the haze of his grief, he’s been coasting by. His coworkers know enough not to ask, and he takes the latest shifts, the quieter ones, which ends up with higher tabs, and longer conversations. Percy spills his guts to a lady on business from London, and almost ends up staggering with her to the elevator, before giving her a courteous smile, and a murmured apology.

There is no fraternizing between guests and him, though he’s had many, dozens if not hundreds of offers. It’s not an official rule, but it’s Percy’s. Besides, he’s not in the habit of using people to get over someone. Not when that someone is dead.

One night, as are many, he comes home, sheds his uniform in favor of a burning hot shower, and lays awake for so long the sun begins to rise. He cannot sleep that night, so he decides to put on a robe and step into his slippers, daringly walking into the makeshift office.

After almost a year of avoiding the pain, a thick layer of dust covers everything from the chair to the desk itself, as well as the book. Percy pushes, and pushes, exhaustion making him do things he’d never do in a better mind, or sober. He cannot remember how many martinis he sampled over the night.

Sunday’s are always busy, no matter the hour. He reaches out a hand, and then lets his fingertips wipe the dust from the cover, before getting a proper grip on it. Picking it up and opening it is a mistake.

He drops it like he’s been burned. The first page is the last drawing he did.

Theseus, standing there, handsome and cheerful, hands in his pockets, dressed in his crisp uniform, looking every inch the hero. To think, Percy hadn’t even gotten the disservice of receiving a letter, informing him of the man’s death. Instead, he had to hear it second hand from Theseus’s little brother. Even now, four years later, those words cut him right to the quick without meaning to do anything of the sort. It was supposed to be a kindness. Percy’s hand shakes as he rereads words long since memorized.

 

_With regret, I must tell you that my brother, whom I know you loved, has been killed._

_As far as we can tell, it was immediate._

_They could not tell me where, but he was saving lives when he died. Know this, and take comfort._

_He spoke of you to us often, and it is my belief he would want you to be part of our family._

_Should you need anything, I am here to help._

_Sincerely, Newton [Newt] Scamander._

 

Percy hates the sight of the letter, pressed in thirds, tucked in the book right beside the final portrait.

It’s so final, so empty of the verve and depth that belonged to every moment of living with Theseus.

Percy drops it again, sneezing loudly from the unsettled dust. It makes his eyes sting, and tears form and fall, as he leaves the room feeling worse than tired. He feels ancient, and full of regret.

Forget about so much as putting a hand near a pencil or a stick of charcoal.

Percy may never draw again if it means looking at that horrible book.

Unfortunately, try as he might to stick to this plan, it seems he can’t truly avoid it forever. He works the late shifts still, and his relief bartender comes in with a sunny grin, which almost annoys him, though he smiles through the irritation and exhaustion, and greets the young woman.

“How was your evening Q? Ready for the jet laggers?”

Their little joke is that no matter the hour, there will be someone who comes in looking for a hangover.

Q fairly chirps at him as she hangs up her pink coat, withdrawing a parcel from her match purse,

“Absolutely! Say, didn’t you mention something about being an artist? I saw this and thought of you.”

Rather than waiting for him to acknowledge what’s happening, an uncommon kindness outside of a holiday or his birthday, she flicks a long cream laquered nail under the seam and swiftly tears it open. Percy blinks, and then she’s holding out a leather bound book, it’s stamped with a seal that looks vaguely like a G. His hand only shakes a little as he accepts it.

He doesn’t have to open it to know it’s got blank pages inside, smelling like fresh milled pulp.

“Thank you.”

He says it so soft, he wonders if she even hears.

“You’re welcome honey. Sometimes I think the most inspiring thing is a blank canvas. It’s just waiting for you to bring life to it. Now go on, get out of here. Go sit by the Fontaine des Mers. See if you can’t spot something.”

Something... worthy of drawing? Percy’s not so sure. He takes her advice, though he has nothing to use to draw, even if he could. He finds his way through the crowds and sits on the ledge, the makeshift benches surrounding the fountain. Cars seem to whiz by faster than normal, as the loud chatter rises to a dull roar, and Percy finds himself reaching into his pocket for a coin to toss in the water.

It’s what people do, isn’t it?

Make pointless wishes and hope there’s a god up there listening, watching, waiting to grant them?

Percy sighs deeply, and thumbs the coin in, the plop as it splashes in and soft clunk as it lands the only thing he actually hears, until he looks up, and the world’s still going. People walking by and around, buggies and bikes chugging along. The notebook sits on his thigh, mocking him with its new paper smell, it’s heavy yet empty pages, and Percy feels a bit like chucking _it_ into the water.

There’s someone shouting across the Concorde, and to Percy’s amusement it sounds a bit like a cat wailing. He’s heard real caterwauling in the apartment building, as well as through his windows when hanging up laundry. They don’t stop for anything, except perhaps a stray mouse, or rogue rat.

Whoever is yelling at the crowd must know it’s in vain, as everyone is in far too much of a hurry to stop and listen, not even for some poor fool playing a guitar, or tap dancing.

They’d have more luck if they went down the road a bit, to the other square, with far less distractions. Suitably bored of sitting there any longer, Percy gets up, reluctantly bringing the notebook with him, and begins his trek home. It’s only when he gets there, and decides to go into his office to put the book with the other that he realizes the truth. Q is right. It's never going to be like it was before.

Percy can't change the past. He can’t go back and make himself stop loving Theseus, to prevent ever being hurt by losing him. He can face that, and remember it. Theseus was his Muse, his all. Does it have to be the end of everything? Percy thinks, deep down, that _he_ would not want this. He could write to Newt, to ask advice, how he’s faring, what he does to help, but he thinks he already knows the answer. Find something new to pour himself into. He has work, and it’s not enough, it never has been.

Percy needs to start drawing again. His hands still shake, even though his knuckles turn white as he grips the back of his chair. They aren’t like this from fear, or grief. Percy’s fingers itch to hold a charcoal, a pencil, to _do_ something. To create. Even if now the only place Theseus lives is in his memory and his sketchbooks, it’s not enough. Percy just _needs_.

What he can do is vow not to do anything from life, no more people. There’s no point to having a muse if one can simply capture the world in an image.

Percy leaves the room to return with a damp rag, and he dusts. He cleans.

He makes the place presentable, and throws the windows open to shake out the mess he’s washed away. There’s no cats yowling or birds singing unusually loud, but a lungful of fresh air helps. Percy sits, and reaches for the book, as well as a chunk of black.

His hands get as filthy as the page, but he manages to loosely scribble the alleyway below, the windows across from him, and the awning hiding most of the street from his eyes.

Percy tosses the charcoal down and frowns at the page.

It feels… off without any people. But he knows he can get used to it. It simply takes practice.

The next day when Percy gets off work, he keeps the book with him, along with a pencil, and walks further down the river, towards the Louvre. He doesn’t get too close, as it's always packed by this time of day, and there will be little chance of sketching the pyramid.

Instead he focuses on the trees, the square hedges, a small water feature.

He ducks his head down, as his hand begins to move, fingers taut on the pencil, but gentle with pressure, so that it’s a faint outline, a barely there hint of life.

Percy thinks he’s there for the better part of an hour, before someone accidentally bumps into him, and keeps going, murmuring apologies in accented French.

He offers a _‘not at all,’_ and doesn’t look away from his page.

Usually tourists ignore those who are like Percy, drawing things and places, or even people, as they move on their way to see the museums. There is no shouting today, not here, only a shuffle of papers as he tucks his pencil away, a light breeze carrying the usual brine scent from the river. Percy checks his watch and sees he could stop to go eat lunch if he wanted. He’s half done with the sketch.

It looks like… something. A few blobs that are trees, and sharp edges that belong to the buildings in the distance. Otherwise, it’s terrible. His hand is a bit cramped, and his neck aches from staring up and back down to the page. He reaches up to rub a hand over his shoulder and then squeezes hard as he gets to the top of his spine. He tilts his head and feels his neck stretch a little.

Much better. Percy catches a flash of black and white out of the corner of his eye, realizing it’s a flier, tucked into the bench where he sits. Caught by the slats, carried by the wind, perhaps.

He plucks it up and turns it over, right side up. There’s a bright splash of color, red lettering reads: _‘REPENT NOW, ALL YE WITH WICKED HEARTS.’_

Ah, yes, Paris is indeed a city brimming over with that. Sinful souls and vices aplenty.

Percy smiles amusedly, and glances around, wondering where the hell this came from.

There’s no one very nearby this side of the river, and the square is a block down.

Could it have blown that far? Percy isn’t sure.

He picks up his notebook and wanders that way, folding and stuffing the paper in his pocket. He’s not so much shuffling as he is pacing in one direction. People continue to pass him, weaving around him, bicycle bells chirp and tires squeal. There’s a hunched over figure in front of Maxim’s, just outside the door, under the stoop, looking dreadfully shabby and out of place. Probably just capitalizing on how much nicer it smells there rather than right beside the river. Percy can’t even blame them.

He smiles to himself and keeps going. Long as the chocolate shop doesn’t run the guy off, he’ll be alright. Percy notices that he doesn’t seem to be trying to meet anyone’s gaze, though one hand is outstretched, a garish flier in hand. He steps closer, and blinks. It’s red and black and white.

Just like the one in his pants pocket. Percy swallows the rude question he’d been formulating, tucks the notebook into his jacket, and then shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling the crunch of the plasticy paper, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Hey kid, got a light?”

He doesn’t actively smoke, but it’s a good icebreaker, a guaranteed conversation starter. If anything, it’ll help him know where the kid’s coming from. He looks extremely uncomfortable with himself, his clothing, maybe even his own skin, as well as the street, and the papers themselves in his hands.

Percy gets a half mumbled _‘No Monsieur, sorry Monsieur’_ in reply and then the kid falls silent entirely again.

“What’s that about?” He tries again, and points this time, with his head, jerking it towards the stack held flush to the kid’s chest, as the wind flutters the one in hand. Percy’s starting to get concerned, the longer he looks at this kid, this boy. He appears half starved, and perhaps he’s breathing in the sweetness of the shop because he can’t remember the last time he ate.

Percy meanwhile could pinpoint the time, and describe every bit of his breakfast.

“I don’t wish to be a bother, Monsieur.”

The longer he stands there, the more foolish he feels.

Percy bartends, he knows when and where to make a tactical retreat. This boy isn’t interested in casual conversation, he must be able to tell Percy won’t support the cause, and doesn’t really care for it.

“They offer samples if you can’t decide what you want.” He finally says, noting the boy’s eyes lift to him momentarily, as his brows meet in question. Percy nods to the shop windows, and then gives half a smile.

“Trust me. They’re good. Don’t work too hard for the lord now.”

Percy withdraws his hands and takes off, back up the street, not looking to see if the boy’s going to go inside. He swears he can feel eyes on his shoulders the whole way, but when he finally does give in and glance across his shoulder, the boy’s gaze is on the ground, steady as ever.

That night when he’s trying to sleep, instead of the usual haze and bitterness, mingling with dread about what he’s going to try and draw next doesn’t come. Percy dreams.

He can’t place the figure who’s scattered over his sketchbook, but they’re tall, lanky, and shy. Quiet.

All of the portraits have a mournful tone, and there’s wisps of smoke framing them, rather than a proper surrounding background.

When Percy wakes up the next morning and heads to work, he packs his notebook, and tells Q thanks, again. “For what?”

“You were right.” He says, not meaning to be enigmatic or avoiding, but it comes out that way.

Q smiles. “Okay honey, whatever you say.”


	2. Chapter 2

The man is back. As Credence walks through the gardens on the way to the fountain, while hopeful for a better crowd than he’ll get from waiting outside the Louvre like some kind of human vulture, he can’t help noticing the same man from yesterday, once again perched on a bench, deep in concentration, drawing something. 

Perhaps one of the bronze sculptures, or a wild part of the surrounding trees. Maybe the people. 

There’s a woman and her baby being photographed by another lady, and they all look very cheerful. 

The perfect subject to be immortalized in paper. Credence swallows, ducking his head, continuing on. 

He doesn’t mean to stare, but he ends up stopping just far enough away he can lift his eyes, and spot the man, bent over his notebook, working expertly. Credence finds himself thinking that he’s very handsome, almost dashing, engrossed in his work.

The man only glances at his subject a few times, apparently having memorized them for the most part, and draws for long stretches of time. Credence knows because he’s starting to sweat, standing in the same place. His feet ache, and his shoulders burn. His hands are clammy on the fliers, ensuring no one will take any. Credence won’t lose any to the wind today either, as he got beaten for yesterday’s mishap, the waste. 

It’s expensive to get things printed these days, and he knows, he needs to be more careful. 

Credence may have done the linework and illustrations of horrors, what things befall those who ignore god’s wisdom and judgement, but it doesn’t mean he gets to slack off when it comes to handing them out. He’d only distributed about a dozen yesterday, spoken to half that. Most people took one, read it, and tossed it in the garbage. The man was one of the few who didn’t even take one, but who also spoke to him kindly. It was entirely unique. Credence thinks that’s why he notices the man. 

It’s the polite conversation. Nothing to do with the swoop of dark hair over his forehead, the heavy brows that meet like a pair of small fuzzy caterpillars sharing a leaf. Credence doesn’t find men to be the same kind of delicate and beautiful as women. In fact, they’re the opposite in many ways. 

All people are created in god’s image of course, therefore they are perfect and lovely, but for the sin that corrupts them. Credence knows this. 

Yet, to him, the sight of a pretty woman does not cause him any harm, or tempt him in any way. 

It’s far worse than that. Rather, he’s been caused to feel the swooping of butterflies in his gut thanks to a smile from a  _ man _ , and only just recently. There was the milkman, then a grocer, and now, the other day, this artist. He ached to be able to talk with the man, to explain how he’s not sure he believes in the cause that his family is devoted to. His sisters, his ma, they all feel so strongly and he is left behind. In the back. Doubting it all. Credence thinks back to how much he hates it all, and that in and of itself is a sin. 

Somehow it’s worse than a loud one, like lying, or cursing. 

Ma’s outlook on sin and the present day only overlap every so often. It makes for a very confusing time, Credence has discovered. He plans to make his way back to the candy store on his walk home, and see if he can’t sneak a sample out for Modesty. 

She loves sweets more than him, and he knows it would improve her day. 

As he moves to shuffle down the path, he looks over and sees the man is gone. He’s moved on from his bench. Credence tries to ignore the small wave of disappointment churning in his gut. That is, until he turns around and starts walking, only to nearly slam into the man’s chest, and half drop his fliers. 

“Oh my god.” He blasphemes before he can stop himself, as he ducks down to his knees to scoop up what he’s dropped. 

The ground is dry, no storms have recently soaked Paris, so Credence can save most of the fliers. 

Only a few get dirt on the pristine white background, and the man hands him those that he missed. 

His heart beat thunders in his ears as warm calloused fingers brush over his own chilled skin, then the hand is on his arm, helping him back to his feet. 

He nearly stumbles back to the ground again as the both of the man’s hands grasp at his shoulders, before letting him go once he seems stable. “Thank you Monsieur.” 

Credence says hastily, preparing to apologize for running into him without even a word. But the man is watching him, his gaze cautiously curious, and then he’s softly asking if Credence is alright. 

“Of course! Yes. I didn’t see you, you startled me.” 

Credence glances over and starts to stammer, as the man grins easily, 

“No it’s fine. I should have been more careful, approaching you from a blind spot was foolish. I came over because I thought I should ask your permission before drawing you. But it’s a bit late. I half started this. Is it okay?” 

Credence isn’t sure exactly what the man could mean, until he’s holding up a notebook, flipping through it to show him a pencil drawing of  _ himself _ . He’s curled in on himself, a bundle of fliers unmistakable in his hands, as his dark clothing and hair provides a contrast to the dreamy atmosphere of the park.

This man, this artist, has managed to make him look like he fits in, while singling him out in the scene entirely. “You hate it.” He says suddenly, looking dismayed, and Credence hastens to correct him, to argue kindly. 

“No! No sir, not at all. It’s incredible. It’s far more than I deserve. I don’t look like this…” 

Credence is far from the angelic portrayal of himself in this man’s drawing notebook. 

He feels a hand on his arm, the touch burning through his jacket, his shirt, making Credence look down, and then back to the man’s face. 

“I’d disagree. You’re enchanting, if painfully sad. I’d like to fix that. If I could. Would you come get a coffee with me? You could tell me about this, call it a business meeting.” 

The man points to Credence’s fliers, and he winces. 

All those harsh words and ugly condemnations printed on them are far too cruel for this man. 

This artist is a kind soul, even if he may be a sinner. “Monsieur, I must decline. Thank you though.”

The man bites his bottom lip, and Credence’s eyes can’t help but drop to follow the movement. Something clenches in his stomach. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, at lunch, a horrid gruel that ma said would have to last the night, until she had enough money to buy some day old potatoes for soup. 

He swallows on a dry throat. “Maybe, I could just have a cup of water, and I’ll sit with you.” 

This gains him a smile, and the man’s hand shifts from cupping his elbow to rest in front of him, “Wonderful. Percy Graves, delighted to meet you…?” 

An elegant name for such a beautiful man, Credence thinks to himself, accepting the hand, and shaking it firmly. Further warmth blossoms inside him. “I’m Credence.” 

His surname is of little consequence, and the man, Percy, doesn’t seem to notice he leaves it off.

Percy lets go of Credence’s hand and starts walking, indicating for him to follow, so he does. 

The cafe Percy takes them to is a handful of blocks down, but Credence doesn’t care, he barely feels it in his legs. It just feels good to  _ move _ , too long he’s been standing still, stopping after only changing spots and being unsuccessful. Now he’s got someone who wants to listen to him, to talk to him. 

As Credence sips at the cool glass of water Percy orders for him, he listens first, and then realizes the man’s asked him a question. “Sorry?” 

“Do you want a soup or salad before your sandwich?” 

Credence feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry sir, I couldn’t afford either if I wanted them.” 

Percy blinks, then looks mildly surprised, his heavy brows lifting almost high enough to bump into his bangs, “I was rather hoping it was obvious this was my treat, Credence. Please, you look like you haven’t eaten in a week. A stiff breeze would knock you over.” 

He can only stare in shock as the waiter returns, and Percy orders for him. Two fresh salads and then two sandwiches served with dipping sauce, as the bread tends to be rather dry. 

“But it tastes delicious, I promise you.” The man assures him. 

Credence uses both hands on his water, afraid he’ll drop it and break the glass if he’s not careful. 

Percy eyes him throughout a long silence, as Credence tries to think of something to say. 

Somehow, he’s going to pay back this man’s kindness. He’s not sure  _ how _ exactly, but the lord works in mysterious ways, he knows that much. “So, what do you do, Credence, when not peddling religion?”

He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be insulted at this, for he knows how ma would react, instead, something like a nervous laugh escapes him. 

“Who me? Oh, nothing. My life is dedicated to the lord.” Percy looks on the verge of a laugh as well, until he understands that Credence isn’t joking. It’s the sad, unfortunate truth. 

This man must know what sort of person he’s with. Someone who’s not allowed dreams. 

He speaks excellent french, but with a very strong accent, and Credence guesses he’s english, maybe american. His words are clipped, his tone strong, and confident, though his dark brown eyes hold a deep sadness. Credence thinks, he’d make a very good angel. He’s beautiful, tragic, and kind. 

“Surely you must enjoy things? Books, music, a good loaf of bread? We’re in Paris, the city of light, or is it love? I can never remember.” Percy’s expression is teasing, and light, making Credence ache to smile along, to agree. There is only one thing he’s good at besides memorizing chapter and verse, and it’s vanity to admit so. “I like to draw. To illustrate.” Credence finally blurts out, and Percy’s smile returns. 

“Ah. There you go. So there is something. Do you have any books of your work? You see I carry mine everywhere. I used to do more. I’m sort of just getting back to it after a time off.” 

Percy’s face falters slightly, and Credence’s long dormant curiosity is piqued. 

“What happened? Have you not sold many pieces?” 

He’s trying to be polite, as he has no idea what sort of art sells, and what people like to buy. Credence has only seen the outside of the many museums in the city, and he sometimes dreams about what’s inside. Ma says, if they only displayed works relating to the lord and the Bible, then he and his sisters could visit an exhibit, but there’s too great of a chance of perversion, for sin to slip in. 

Percy remains silent for a long while. Their sandwiches arrive and their salad plates are taken away before he speaks. Credence crunches on a bite of delicious bread, moist and tender chicken, along with juicy tomato and creamy spread. He almost misses what the man says, lost in the taste of the food. 

Percy seems to reconsider, and then his lips part, his tongue slips out to wet them, 

“I lost someone, very dear to me. So I thought I was done. As it turns out, my muse thought differently. Then I saw you.”

Credence swallows, and then horror floods him as he catches up to what the man said. 

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He manages to croak out, and he takes a large sip of water to ensure the bread does not stick in his throat. Even if the cafe calls it dry, he’s had dry and stale bread, and this is not it. Percy reaches across the table to snag one of his wrists in a gentle squeeze. Credence goes perfectly still, and hopes his body doesn’t betray him by shaking, or suddenly spasming, making him spill or drop the glass after he’s been so careful. 

“Thank you. It was a long time ago. War is a terrible thing.” 

Credence bites his tongue to keep from agreeing. The war stole his family from him. His real family. Much as he loves and cares for his sisters, they are not his blood. Ma is far harsher than Credence’s mother ever was. In those days, skipping church because of sickness was not a sin, every single thing he did, living and breathing could not be punishable.

Those were times of happiness, before great sorrow. So he nods, and sees that Percy knows he can understand. It’s been so long, and Credence still aches from the loss of his parents. 

He could barely remember them now, he’d been so young when the minister had told him, in words he could understand that his parents weren’t coming home. With no other family, a godly woman with a daughter only a year older than he, from the church offered to take him in. To think, he could have avoided her slowly dwindling kindness if he hadn’t been just old enough for the orphanage to refuse him. 

Sometimes he wishes he’d thought to insist on going there, telling ma he’d rather someone who truly cared about him adopted him, but if they had turned him away, how long would he have lasted on the streets? Probably not very. If ma is right, he’d have ended up in worse trouble than he is now. 

Selling himself for food, eventually dying from the cold, and disease. 

Credence sighs, and works on more of his sandwich, as Percy does the same. A companionable silence falls, as they both contemplate things they cannot say. 

At the end of the meal, Percy asks for the check, and Credence cannot fight him. 

He has no money to his name to do so. In the end, all he has, is himself.

“I could draw something for you, Monsieur Graves. As a token of my thanks.” 

Credence offers, while they walk back to the park so he can try to finish his work of handing out pamphlets before dark. Percy gives him a strange look. 

“I was about to ask you the same thing. That is, if you’d consider letting me draw you on purpose. Perhaps some day when you haven’t got those to worry about. My studio isn’t far. But if you’d rather do something else... There’s another place, up the river we could go. A theater. We could catch a show, have a bite to eat after.” 

Credence feels as if he’s walking on air, or treading through water that’s filled with bubbles, like he dove into a glass of champagne. It’s wild, reckless, and there’s no way he’ll be able to escape ma’s wrath even if she doesn’t know all the details.

“Okay. I’ve never seen a movie before.” Credence finds himself agreeing, without even thinking. He’ll go anywhere with this man. 

He’ll take this one chance to do something greater with himself. The prospect of being sketched somewhere,  _ alone _ with the man is too much to consider at first. Doing something wild, like seeing a show in a theater seems like a much milder sin by comparison.

Percy bids him a good afternoon, and gives him another handshake, followed by a clap on his shoulder, which he hides his flinch at. The man can’t possibly know that Credence is hurt, so he just ignores the jolt of pain, and returns to his spot beside the river. 

That evening when he goes him, and ma asks how he did, he doesn’t have to lie. 

“I preached to a man, who seemed very interested. I asked him to come back and see me tomorrow if he had anymore questions.” 

Chastity gives him a look of disbelief, and Credence simply ignores her. Modesty always has the most success, and tells ma about the children in the park she invited to church, so Credence is sent to do the dishes without dinner, and he smiles to himself, despite the sting of soap in the cuts under his hands. His stomach is properly full from the late lunch still, so he does not have to look forward to a night of painful cramping. 

**Author's Note:**

> rating may change and tags will be added later


End file.
